


momentum

by darkcomedylateshow



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Magnolia (1999)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkcomedylateshow/pseuds/darkcomedylateshow
Summary: Things fall down. People look up. And when it rains, it pours.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, Demetri & Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz, Miguel Diaz/Samantha LaRusso
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72





	momentum

A sad, dangerous man with a pinched nerve in his back lies on the living room floor, a Coors bottle cap digging into his elbow. 

A local luxury auto dealer commercial plays on the TV. 

A pair of once-best friends make loose arrangements for a duel. 

Another less dangerous, but sadder man makes pancakes and wonders about…something. 

A mom sighs a sitcom-mom sigh and says not tonight, honey.

The same mom signs off on her iPad for the monthly purchase of TV commercial slots on Saturday and Sunday from 1 p.m. - 1 a.m. Pacific Standard Time on the local news channel, the same slot they had been buying for about sixteen years now, before the age of widespread cord-cutting, when it was a given that everyone watched the local news. 

Branches are pruned, dead growth removed. 

Some man lays dying.

A rain of frogs cast down on southern California.

I am the Lady of Scenarios, here is your card. Maybe there are infinite versions of how this really happened. Maybe it is not meteorologically possible for a storm carrying an entire biome of frogs, toads, salamanders, etc to sweep and disperse over the San Fernando Valley, but I’m not an expert, Dearest Reader, I can only give you situations involving characters in the right place at the right time, and let’s face it, if you’re here, I’m here, and I’m writing this to you.

The drone of the TV helped Johnny sleep sometimes, a habit he had obtained when he was pre-pubescent, in order to shut out any arguing between his mom and stepdad. Failing that, he’d put on his headphones and put on a heavy metal tape, turned all the way up—usually Van Halen or Judas Priest. He had never been crazy about any of Mötley Crüe’s songs but the rumors of their total debauchery almost made up for it. Later on, his beloved Black Sabbath made him too sad, too nostalgic for high school and partying and smoking and such, and this was the source of many relapses, often just when it seemed like he was going to turn his life around with an associate’s degree or a job laying stucco or a bartending license — as if he could stay conscious long enough to serve anyone a drink! Imagine Johnny, shaking up lemondrop martinis at the country club, getting fired for “forgetting” to card some community college girls. 

The last thing Johnny wanted to be was one of those “peaked in high school” guys — the kind that life always threatened that he was. So he kept going bigger, louder. Waiting for a choice to mean something, waiting for a decision to stick. 

When he came to that morning, Daniel LaRusso was smiling at him on a blue screen; it must be past 3 PM. 

He turns off the TV by actually going to the monitor and physically switching it off, which everyone now knows will fuck up the calibration of the remote/AV input, but ah, Gen X-er Johnny, born in the days of bunny-ear antennae, back when people called them "TV sets" and you could buy them at Sears. Now it was silent. He had a hangover. He often slept on the heating pad despite the fact there was a serious risk of third degree burns. No masseuse could untie those knots, no physical therapist could rehab that musculoskeletal system into a healthy-shaped body. A coroner would have found tears to the meniscus and damage to his liver and lungs. (And what did you determine was the victim’s cause of death? Loneliness, your honor. A defective heart!) 

But this was not what men of Johnny’s era did (he believed.) Like most with narcissistic tendencies, or a background of interpersonal rejection or abuse (though he would never call it that,) Johnny believed the hardship he had experienced was merely a stepping stone to greatness—that the pain meant that he deserved it more—and what a rude awakening indeed, when greatness never quite arrived. 

(Midway along the crisis of our lives I found myself in a darkened mini-mall dojo…) 

And what a rude awakening, when he found out the kids of this era were even bigger snowflakes than his peers in the Aquanet-fumed 1980s. He remembered a time when boys acted like men. They were unsupervised, they rode bikes and ran shoeless on hot asphalt and threw real punches, they didn’t care about bullshit like instant messenger likes or lactose intolerance or gender pronouns or whatever. He reminded us of this constantly. The mats beneath us were always slippery from two dozen sweaty bare feet. What was crucial happened not when the palm holding the crumb of approval was outstretched, but what had to be endured before it; humiliation, defeat, the erosion of the will. So it had been for Johnny, so it shall be for all his pupils. 

Except…except it's Saturday. The Sabbath! No need to masquerade as sober or do laundry or even move, really. He makes some Folgers, puts _Master of Reality_ in the tape deck and cranks it up. 

Here is where I would do a smash cut — a “SEVERAL HOURS LATER” time-stamp — to the blue-black night, the sound of glass shattering and a vortex of warm wind and thousands of tiny fat little hailstones hitting the ground. To Johnny cowering on a linoleum floor in a hospital wing, pulling his denim shirt up towards his face like Dracula’s cape. And Daniel LaRusso is right there next to him. The two men who taught us the most about defense, unable to defend themselves. Strong men, turned into little boys. 

But before all that: 

On the other side of town there is a house with cheesy architecture, referred to as “Spanish-style,” although this exact type of house appears nowhere in Spain and only in America. Inside this tacky Spanish Colonial house there is a father making pancakes for his children. Not for him. He was on a lo-carb, lo-cal, lo-everything diet, so, it’s saltless egg whites and Beyond breakfast sausage for Dad, even though the flapjacks smelled almost irresistible, all that melted chocolate and banana batter. Almost. For it was he who had mastered the art of restraint. Daniel LaRusso's capacity for self-denial was, in itself, an athletic feat.

Worth noting is the fact that so ingrained was the cheesy local car dealer commercial into the network TV culture that Daniel LaRusso was not really a standout character. The karate schtick he did—the price-chopping and the hi-yah—was tasteful, comparatively. There was, for instance, a place just down the road where the owner would dress up in a Spirit Halloween costume, doing his best Austin Powers impression, promising deals that were shagadelic, baby. _And dogs always welcome!_ a bright female voice would chime in, a barking Collie appearing in a floating circle in the corner of the screen. The voiceover (and dog) probably belonged to the owner’s wife. It was a bit of a cliché, these family-run dealerships, the Botoxed salesman and Juvedermed wife standing hip-to-hip in the scorching lot, squinting at the camera. Not Amanda LaRusso. She had the same sort of look, yes, with the jewelry and balayage and sheath dresses, the anti-boho look, very Starbucks whereas most moms were Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. But she was anonymous. I couldn’t tell you why; maybe she had dignity. Good for her. 

There is something very obnoxious about a local legend. Perhaps we feel for Johnny because we too spent so much time in the shadow of our better peers — thin bodies, college app-friendly extracurriculars, overnight internet stardom — things I coveted but never had. Perhaps we feel for Johnny because he is a self-destructive loser, oblivious to his own toxicity. It’s not that he wasn’t capable of shame. He just seemed to be able to absorb it better than most. Block that kick. Take that punch. Danny, meanwhile, was inherently punchable. It’s not that he deserved it; the opposite, in fact. He was an infuriatingly good man. Look at him, making pancakes for his daughter. He knows something Johnny doesn’t. 

Specifically, he knows that Kreese is dying, and he’s been asking for Johnny, and Daniel's not sure if he wants to do anything about it. For one thing: he’s always dying. It’s this potent combo of manipulation and bullshit artistry that makes Kreese dangerous, Daniel thinks. There’s always some tragedy at hand, a pathetic attempt at pulling at the heartstrings, a non-specific offer of amends. Even worse is the fact Daniel went for it this time, springing to pay for a cushy hospice facility to get him out of the state-run place. He has no actual good reason for doing this. Miyagi-do has nothing to say about what to do with the abusive coach of an old enemy. All those lessons seemed so perfect and simple back then; the moral pathways were clear and unobstructed in his vision.

In his heart Daniel thinks what he’s doing is wrong, selfish somehow on his own end. Look at him making pancakes, trying to think of how to give a dying old man closure. Look at him thinking of ways to see Johnny again. 

It’s at that moment Amanda comes in, pecks them both on the cheek, and leaves. She says something about work and when she’ll be back, but it leaves Daniel’s head the minute she’s gone. Sam is in a mood. She and Amanda are fighting more. No one is dialed in on her needs right now, to say the least—she might just be acting out, he thinks, maybe she needs to talk. He ends up going the oblivious dad route: 

“Have you heard anything about Robby?” Daniel asks, handing her the tiny test pancake. “His mom doing okay?” 

“I don’t know, Dad,” Sam says, already on defense, judging by the tone of her voice. “I don’t really keep up with them anymore.” 

“I was just curious.” 

Sam takes a delicate bite from the pancake, and nods in approval. Daniel finishes making them in silence. He’s thinking about Johnny again. He never added him on Facebook, which means he’d have to send a message request, which, in his experience, could rot there for weeks before the recipient saw it, and he doesn’t have his cell phone number. The only immediate way he could get it would be to ask Sam to ask Miguel, and that’s not appropriate, so the only option was finding him in person. Without the intermediary of the phone or Facebook, it would be more dangerous. Something always happened when they were around each other, usually bad. 

“Can I go to Aisha’s?” Sam asks, snapping him out of it.

“What? Yeah, sure,” Daniel says. He realizes it wasn't really a question; she’s already slinging her bag over her shoulder, grabbing the keys from the counter. “Just text me when you’re on your way back.” 

“Thanks,” she says, hesitating before going over to kiss him on the cheek. “See ya. Love you.” 

Sam puts her phone on airplane mode and drives straight to Reseda. She sees Johnny Lawrence’s car, the one her dad gave him, parked outside, but since it’s about two o’clock on a Saturday she figures he’s asleep and won’t spot her. She gets out of the car and puts her sunglasses on. It’s a crisp fall afternoon, the best it gets out here in the Valley. When Miguel slips out of his apartment, grinning like a hyena, she feels cool as fuck. She transcends the moment. She’s like Nancy Wheeler. Miguel is Molly Ringwald and she is the babe in the Porsche waiting for her. 

“Now what?” he says, once they both get in the car. 

“I dunno,” Sam says.

She puts on The Psychedelic Furs. They are getting into new wave together and it’s adorable. Johnny steps outside just in time to see them drive away. As he watches, he gets that feeling of fatherly impotence, when there’s nothing you can do but you get worked up anyway. Then he decides, fuck it. Fuck everything. 

What a nightmare, Demitri thinks, this meet-me-at-the-flagpole bullshit. They used to make fun of people like them, macho pissing contests like this one. But now Eli—sorry, Hawk—no, Eli keeps texting him, trying to escalate the situation, trying to settle a nonexistent score. He knows this is how Eli operates. He wants the last laugh, not the moral high ground. 

Something Demitri couldn’t actually process until after years of therapy was that he was genuinely very hurt by what Eli was doing. Speaking from experience, having a best friend do a 180 on you can be a unique type of heartbreak. Not that their friendship was perfect to begin with. Demitri had always been “annoying” to people—he’d actually improved somewhat since middle school—and Eli had at first treated hanging out with him as an act of pity. In reality they were both on the same rung of the food chain. It was their moms who first conspired to get them together. They were still close, with a standing appointment at the wine bar on Saturdays. That’s usually when Eli would come over. Now both their schedules were open. 

Finally, Demitri decides to engage, and writes: _Dude I actually have no interest in fighting you again._

_we have shit to settle irregardless_

_*Regardless._

_if you’re not there at 9:00 i will leak screenshots of your Watchmen fan fiction to my story._

_Seriously? You’re blackmailing me now?_

_This is stupid. I don’t want to fight you, Eli._

_im dead fucking serious_

_Ugh_

_OK._

_Where?_

_outside cobra kai_

_It’s supposed to rain_

_?_

_Eli?_

Of course, it’s not really rain, it’s California rain, which lasts a few minutes. Storm systems don’t do well here. Still, Daniel just washed his car, because isn’t that just the way. As he heads towards Reseda Boulevard he starts drumming on the steering wheel anxiously. To the beat of the windshield wipers, he gets some old Frank Zappa stuck in his head— _on Ventura, there she goes, she just bought some bitchin’ clothes._

In one of the few remaining video rental stores in the Los Angeles area, Sam and Miguel are looking for _Valley Girl_ , the Nic Cage classic, but they can’t find it, so they settle for _Fast Times at Ridgemont Hig_ h. The obviously stoned guy behind the counter tells them that they need ID or an adult guardian to rent _Fast Times_. C’mon, they both go, we’re seventeen. (A lie.) It’s store policy, says the guy. That’s a bullshit rule, says Miguel, and he keeps trying to argue until Sam snatches a pack of Sour Patch Kids and a copy of _Boogie Nights_ from the return pile, and they both make a run for it, the little delinquents. 

The dojo is unlocked, but the lights are turned off. Johnny’s there in the office, drinking a beer, hair metal playing on the tinny laptop speakers. When the door bells jingle, Johnny turns the music down by reflex.

“What the fuck are you doing in my dojo?” (Which is more or less what he expected him to say.) 

“I thought it was your day off,” says Daniel. 

“Yeah, well, the wifi machine’s broke in my building.” Johnny glances at the screen and shuts his laptop. “That’s not an answer to my question.” 

Danny thought he could stay civil, but he can’t help himself. “What do you get out of being such a dick to me, after all this time?”

“I don’t know, LaRusso,” he says, standing up. “Seems like wherever you go you do something that makes me want to kick your ass.” 

“Ooh, now you’re up in my face, very scary.” 

“What are you going to do about it, Danielle?”

“And we’re back to the homophobic nicknames! Very nice.”

“What, you’re too scared to fight?” 

“Go ahead, man,” Daniel laughs, half-serious. “Make your move.” 

And then they break into casual sparring, just like old times, except now they have bad backs and children. They get in their stances, half-jokily bouncing around, and Danny moves like he’s going to swing at him, but it’s a fake-out — and then Johnny laughs, and then he laughs, which is enough of a distraction for Johnny to knock him to the ground in one swift movement, with a gracefulness Danny almost finds considerate. And then it starts to happen again, the roughhousing on the mat quickly becomes just making out on the mat, and this is wrong, this is totally wrong, just like old times! How crazy they were back in the day, he remembers, during that one summer where they snuck away every chance they got, in the back of Johnny’s car or a bathroom stall in a pinch, and it was this thing they had together, that only the two of them understood, these completely private fantasies they acted out and then buried for several decades, and _whywhywhyWHY_ — 

“You bit me,” Johnny says, startled. There’s a pink mark on his lip, but no blood. 

“Sorry.” 

“No,” he says, “it was kinda hot.” 

Then Danny feels his teeth on his neck and his hand slipping into his jeans, and he’s totally helpless again. Neither of them are interested in taking their time, so it is over very fast, and soon Danny is staring up at the popcorn ceiling as Johnny rolls off him, re-doing his belt buckle. 

“This isn’t why I came here,” Daniel says, after he catches his breath and the fog rolls out of his brain. 

“Then what?” Johnny says, glancing over at him, flat on his back. "What is it?” 

“It’s Kreese. He’s getting worse.” Danny swallows. “I know you’ve been no-contact, but he reached out to me, and…” 

Daniel thinks he’s going to explode at him, again, but instead Johnny just looks off and asks: “Is it bad?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s pretty bad.” 

Johnny sits up, rubbing at his temples. In the unlit room, the light slashing through the blinds, he looks much younger, with that wounded-kid look. The blood stops rushing between his ears long enough for him to hear the rain driving into the roof. 

“The last thing I want to do is cause you any more hurt,” Daniel says. He is mantra-sincere with his hands clasped in front of him, and maybe that transparency is just too much for Johnny right now. 

“Well,” Johnny mumbles, "it’s a little late for that.” 

“Just think about it,” he says, and goes. 

How fucked it is, Johnny thinks, to be fifty-four and not know what you want! If he was twenty-four and didn’t know what he wanted, that would be one thing, but this is a goddamn joke. He finishes the beer on his desk and gets straight in the car, to that god-awful asbestos-filled apartment Shannon moved into a few years back. The door is not locked. It’s just Robby, eating Froot Loops. When he sees Johnny he makes a face like he’s just stepped in dog turd.

“Where’s your mom?” Johnny asks, then quickly corrects: “Never mind, I don’t wanna know.” 

“What the fuck do you want?” 

“I wanted to talk to you, but if that’s how you’re gonna respond, then—“

“I don’t want to talk,” says Robby, flatly. 

“I know we haven’t had that much a relationship,” Johnny begins, “and your mom’ll be the first one to admit that. But things can change. I want things to change.” 

“We don’t have ‘a’ relationship, first of all.” 

“Can you just listen to me?” 

“I don’t want to listen,” Robby says, “and this is not your house, Johnny, so fucking leave!” 

The way he’s so little-boy adamant, the way he nearly screeches it at him — Johnny realizes then that it’s true. They don’t have a relationship; he barely knows him at all. Suddenly he feels frightened by this teenager with the same nose as him.

“You’re my son,” Johnny says. “You know, one day, I won’t be able to take care of myself, then maybe you’ll regret all this bullshit. Maybe I won’t remember you. Maybe it’ll be too late."

Even he knows this is pathetic. He closes the door gently on the way out.

It was not until much later, when almost all of these people were a memory, that I understood a little more about teenage angst, and what drove us all to make the choices we made. 

The parts of Cobra Kai’s doctrine that were non-negotiable, no-exception truisms appealed to me: to stop flinching and strike first, to not be a pussy, to develop grit. Being one of the boys, a strategy I hadn’t tried but often saw in Eighties movies and teen sitcoms, appealed to me, too. But something neither Daniel LaRusso or Johnny Lawrence could teach me was the ability to adapt. I was in an emotional tailwind. All my peers conducted themselves like they were in a daytime soap, inflating the stakes of every interaction and pulling zero punches—everything from starting feuds to sending diatribes over text or tagging you in an unflattering photo of yourself. 

At the time I thought this was endemic to the West Valley school district, but after having children of my own I found out it was universal. I felt the way Johnny must have felt when he heard about how they treated me or Miguel or Eli or Chris or any of us, really. Confused. Indignant, as if hit with selective amnesia about what it was like to be that age, with one’s ego constantly at threat, compulsively reopening wounds. 

But I noticed that as I was faced with more adult pain, problems like bills and family and collective grief, my inner wounded teenager grew quieter. In between bouts of rage, I was able to compartmentalize. I did not need to strike anything. It wasn’t exactly healing, but it was better than nothing. I was capable of returning to the mundanity of the day and start making a grocery list. 

Johnny is at Ralphs when he runs into Shannon. She's at the pharmacy counter; he is scanning the back wall for the Jim Beam. (Which was something she always mocked him for. She says to me, she says, Jim Beam's for old guys, it’s for old men who like to fish.) 

Anyway, of course she’s here. This is her usual rhythm. She hasn’t noticed Johnny yet; she’s talking to the pharmacist in that quiet, argumentative tone. Impulsively, he grabs a bouquet of flowers from the front and buys it with his whiskey and bananas. He finds her again on the way out. She’s bleary-eyed, but still surprised to see him. 

“Flowers for the lady,” Johnny says. The bouquet crinkles loudly in his hand. 

“Thanks,” she says, unenthusiastically, sticking the flowers under her arm. It’s one of those cheesy arrangements with red roses and baby’s breath, not at all to her taste. “Are you stalking me? It’s not working.” 

“I just thought I’d do something nice for you.” Johnny knows this is a lie but can’t define how. 

“Better get home so I can put them in water.” 

“That’s bullshit,” he says, "I know you’re going straight to the bar.” 

“Mind your own business,” she says, as Johnny follows her out the automatic doors. “I know you came to our apartment. Robby texted me. You little creep.” 

“So you’re on speaking terms with Robby again?” 

“I am his _mother_ ,” she snaps. 

“Well, good to know you’ve returned to the role, instead of having LaRusso’s wife step in.” Now they’re so loud that people in the parking lot are starting to rubberneck. (Ah, the good old days!) “I see rehab went well.” 

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Johnny,” she says, opening her car door and throwing the prescription bag on the seat. 

“Enjoy your wilted fucking flowers,” he says. She flings them in his face, which he deserves, probably.

Sam and Miguel try watching _Boogie Nights_ on the old VHS but it’s long and kind of depressing, so they just get out the laptop and queue up _Valley Girl_ instead. And just when Nic Cage’s wrong-side-of-the-tracks punk rocker and the eponymous valley girl are about to have their opposites-attract moment at the mall, Miguel’s phone starts ringing. It’s his mom. Sam’s mom called her at work, she explains, because she can’t find Sam anywhere, she called Aisha’s mom and now her. Miguel lies to her with surprising deftness. He acts upset that Carmen even mentioned Sam’s name. She reminds him to get takeout for dinner, she’s doing another Tinder date. He wishes her good luck, ever the supportive son. 

Demitri can’t lie to his mom, because he sucks at it, so he decides to lie by omission instead and say he’s going to hang out with Eli. She looks so happy for him that he almost wants to recant the lie, but she’s already on the way out for her wine bar hour. He’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t even know what the dress code is for a duel — is it going to be like West Side Story? Will there be spectators, or just both of them standing in the rain, like some anime showdown? He decides to change out of his Bluth’s Banana Stand t-shirt into a striped polo, the most serious thing he owns, easy but accessible. 

Daniel just drives around for an hour or two. He can’t fathom going back home. He drives a wide circle through Reseda, to his old apartment building, eventually ending back up at the dojo. Johnny is sitting out there on the curb. He must see him pulling up, he must see Daniel getting out of his car and walking towards him, but he pretends not to. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Johnny says, looking up at him with an uneasy smile. “Fine. I give up. Put me in, coach. I’ll see the old bastard one last time.” 

“Great.” Daniel’s face relaxes; he looks over and notices the brown paper bag in Johnny’s hand, the crumpled bouquet resting on the curb. “Let me drive.” 

As she and Miguel get back in the car, Sam turns her phone back on and realizes she has thirty missed calls from her mom. She puts airplane mode back on. She’s already so dead, so why not have a little fun before she goes and faces the music? Poor sheath-dress-and-Starbucks Amanda, perennial victim to her own lameness. What’s a healthy choice, anyway? Getting head trauma from karate-related injuries? She’s sick of trying to achieve. She just wants to exist, freely, which nobody’s let her do since kindergarten, whether it was martial arts or ballet or soccer or volleyball or coding camp — she just wants to do stupid shit with her boyfriend, like a normal sixteen-year-old. Just because Daniel LaRusso was deprived of a childhood doesn’t mean she has to be. 

The hospice wing is nice. They’ve got music, and flowers. Johnny hates hospitals and death and cushioning the blow of death with nice things, music and flowers. And he hates dead parents, and dead mentors, and old friends you owe things to, old friends that aren’t really your friends and not really your lovers. He stands around shiftily as Daniel talks to the nurse, sanitizes his hands. 

“Do you want me to leave you two alone?” Daniel asks.

“No, LaRusso. Don’t make it weird.” 

Now the rain is letting up, and he's just sitting there and looking at Kreese’s face, which he always found so strange, such a Looney Tune face, the strong jaw and the unavoidable puff of age and steroids and sun damage. Johnny knows that hearing is the last sense to go. That hospital chaplains will usually encourage you to tell the patient it’s okay, it’s fine, we’re here, we love you. If nothing else they'll hear your voice and be able to let go. It’s the last kindness you can extend to a person, someone who might be frightened, regretful. 

“I hope it hurts,” he whispers, “I hope it burns like Drano, you son of a bitch, I hope it hurts the way you hurt me."

Daniel doesn’t interject. He just stands in the door and looks at Johnny, crumpled in his chair. 

“You son of a bitch,” Johnny cries, “you mean old son of a bitch. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.” 

Then the frogs come. 

A storm carrying a large body of water begins to deposit them—like falling asleep or becoming an alcoholic, slowly, then all at once—and they fall to the ground, dead upon impact if not already dead, or hopping briefly before being taken out by another froggy comrade at terminal velocity. 

Johnny doesn’t see what’s happening first. He turns around and sees the look of sheer horror on Daniel’s face. A frog falls through the skylight in the hallway, and the ceiling starts to crack, old drywall caving in on itself. The windows shatter. The wind howls and pulls. 

Kreese opens his eyes, groggy but startled by the sound. He seems to see them. Next thing Johnny knows Daniel is pulling him out of the room, down the hall, and they crouch together in the emergency stairwell, them and the night nurses and the janitors and the patients who were ambulatory at the time. 

The roads, mostly empty at the time of night, are suddenly coated with frogs and therefore impassable. Amanda LaRusso gets into a three-car pileup on Magnolia Boulevard: first she loses control of her brand new Audi and it careens right into another Audi with two teenagers behind the wheel, one of whom is her daughter, and then a battered red Prius rams into both of them. 

Before she sees her daughter and Miguel, Amanda recognizes the other woman—strawberry blonde, bloodshot eyes, wearing some fast-fashion peasant blouse. It’s Robby’s mom. Shannon flings the door open and books it down the sidewalk, into the apartment building one block down.

As he raises his hands to fight, a frog pelts Eli Hawk Moskowitz directly in the nose and knocks him straight to the ground, his head cracking on the the concrete. He screams, Demitri screams, and they both panic a moment before he drags Eli under the concrete awning. 

I was there. I was smoking weed at Moon’s house when the frogs came crashing through the plate-glass windows of her parents’ faux-midcentury mansion. Moon and her girlfriend hid in the walk-in closet; I huddled on the floor and waited. 

“What the fuck is happening?” cries Eli. 

“This happens,” says Demitri. “This is something that happens, this is something that happens, this is something that happens.” 

It lasted about five minutes in total. I waited until I couldn’t hear until any more of them hitting the roof and rolling off onto the ground. When I looked out I saw a wasteland of frogs. They floated motionless on the surface of the pool and lay flattened on the concrete, broken glass slicing into their fat bellies. Dogs were barking, car alarms were going off for miles, and the earth was still for a second. 

All of them find each other again in the hospital, in the intensive care waiting room. Eli, with his mohawk fucked up, texting his mom while still bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth, and Demitri, polo shirt stained with his blood, reading a comic on his phone. And Sam and Miguel, and Miguel’s mom, and Sam’s mom, all sitting there together in those awful tweedy-backed hospital chairs, everyone resting on each other like war buddies. And Danny and Johnny, still holding onto each other in the hospice wing stairwell, a few flights up. And Robby, in his mom’s arms, letting her hold him like he’s a little kid. 

“Wow,” says Miguel, looking around, “what a squad.” 

And the kids all laugh, even though they don’t want to. The adults stay quiet.


End file.
